A Twisted Kind Of Love
by ApolloBlackwood
Summary: A different take on Ace Attorney: Dual Destinies. Contains spoilers for the trilogy, Apollo Justice, Edgeworth Investigations 1 and Dual Destinies (some of them details, some of them major plot points). Partially written for the kink meme, evolving around Simon and his detective.
1. Lion's Den 1

**Part 1 - Into the Lion's Den**

Of course it's dark. The moon in the night sky could compete with today's comforting words by his psychiatrist – pale, not able to break through dark heavy clouds, ailing.

He ought to close his eyes. Try to sleep. Might make him feel better.

He turns to his side, right arm under his head, making out silhouettes in his cell. He mustn't make too much noise. Even if **he** can't find inner peace Taka wouldn't be fond about being woken in the middle of night. Can birds dream?

"_Your eyes, Simon. You don't look like … Have you had bad dreams again?"_

Does she pretend to care? Every time he looks into the psychiatrist's eyes he tries to find familiarity in them, something that would greet him welcome but instead he finds - _"You're not sleeping either, doctor. You can lay down. Rest. Sleep if you can. We have two hours. Do you want the couch or are you fine with the chair?"_

It's easy to cling to the feeling inside him when he sees eyes like hers. The thoughts of goodbye. Murder. Hatred. Especially hatred.

For himself.

With one jolt he sits upright on his plank bed, rubs his eyes, frees his sight from the bangs that hang into his eyes. As he stands up Taka shifts his weight uneasily on the bar right under the barred window but doesn't open his eyes. Silently, Simon gets on his knees, stretches one arm out and puts the other onto his back.

_One, two, three, …_

Usually, one arm push-ups helped him to chase away the ghosts in his mind.

_Fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, …_

His arm begins to tremble and fine trickles of sweat appear on his temples. Little waterfalls run down his back. He reaches 30 push-ups and switches arms without much more than an exhale, starting his count from zero again.

_Sharpen your mind to be a honed blade but be careful that it does not turn into a double-edged sword._

He would have liked to take a sword and resume his training in the training hall.

Covered in a film of sweat he stands up again, runs his fingers through his hair, concentrates on controlling his breathing. He might change into his regular outfit to get rid of those sticky pants, at least put on the black ones – _be careful that it does not turn into a double-edged sword._

He freezes. Remembers who told him that. Feels sudden pain in his chest and has to bend over, breathing hard again.

"Skree?" Taka shakes, flaps his wings, tilts his head. He looks at his companion, his face a mask.

"Pardon, Taka", he apologizes. "I didn't mean to wake you."

* * *

The morning salute wakes them at precisely 6:30 AM. There are guards going past prison cells with whistles and pretended happy calls that spell positivity and enjoyment.

Simon is already dressed when his bailiff – he calls him Pollyanna because fuck his attitude – reaches his cell. "Good morning, Simon! The sun is shining brightly today and weather forecast promised a grand total of 86 Fahrenheit! Do you want to take a walk with us this time?" He manages to convey his message through his smile just as well.

"Did you bring what I asked for?" His knuckles stand out white against his skin. Next time the bones might tear through the surface with the amount of strain he uses on his body. Not this time.

"I fear that fulfilling your wish was not possible, Simon." Would hitting Pollyanna do any bad for him? He already is on death row.

_Anger is just a hot cover for layers of fear, Simon. What do you fear?_

He breaths out. Collects himself. Calms down. His face doesn't show any change to the outside. For Pollyanna he seems to keep quiet for seconds. But when did that ever stop him from talking?

"See, I had a long talk with our superiors and they applaud your well-behavior, Simon. You never had a fight with other inmates and you get along with everybody. I will ask them again today if you want. Today is a new day to look forward to!"

_Looking forward to something. In prison. Don't make me laugh._

He twitches with his head and Taka follows his unvoiced order. The bird's claws dig deep into his jacket and he can almost – almost – feel them pierce his skin. Taka never hurt him.

When Pollyanna adds the chains on his wrists, that's when the pain starts. He hates himself for shaking in his shackles, for not being able to suppress the tiny movement of his hands. He should be used to handcuffs by now. It's what – six years? Six. That's almost as many talons as Taka has on both claws.

They walk briskly. Pollyanna's mouth is running ahead of him but Simon knows his way – he was here for so long that he might start calling this place his home.

It doesn't feel like home. It never will.

_Home would have killed you too._

The eating area is crowded with people. Taka leaves his shoulder and flies away in order to get his own food. Simon knows, one whistle by him will be enough to call his friend back.

If that would only apply to humans.

_Maybe I can find a tune to get **rid **of Pollyanna **for eternity **instead._

"What's so funny?"

"... Hmph." Simon sits down and takes the spoon to eat his breakfast on the table in front of him. The mass (might be porridge but porridge is supposed to not be cuttable) tastes like every day.

No knives in prison allowed. Dumb rule.

The woman takes off her french beret and starts tearing and biting it with a gruesome face. "Why you –! Do you think you're better than me, dumbbell?" She makes a move to get up but her neighbor grabs her by her wrist and pulls her down effortlessly. He emanates an aura of tranquility that comes from deep understanding of the world like he's made his peace with himself. "Don't be upset. He doesn't mean it."

She sits down again, frowning. "Like … how can this … like … be." It's not a question. "Leaving. Like … no." Fingers against her temples, tongue out. Tries to be cute. A coping mechanism. Escape reality. Pretend.

Simon watches without words. Let her talk._ She needs it._

"Mimi." The man takes her hand. She's trembling now.

"I … Like … I … Why m-me? Like … now?" She shuts her mouth, grabs her beret, shaking – he knows the signs when he sees them.

"When?", he asks. He is surprised to see tears running down the man's cheeks. His eyes flash in understanding and he decides to change the topic. "Do you listen to the bailiff's talking?"

"Yes." The man caresses a canary that landed on his shoulders. _So, birds feel his tranquility as well. _"There is a new detective around. I believe there will be an assembly later to welcome him."

A new detective?

Who cares.

* * *

"Oh, Simon!" The psychiatrist takes off her glasses with a quick shy smile and stands up from her chair as the bailiff leads him in. "Thank you." The bailiff nods and leaves without word, lets prisoner and psychiatrist alone. Only a fool would try an attack now. But a samurai's blade can be made out of words easily. "Why don't you take a seat?"

"I prefer to stand."

"O-of course." Her face heats up but she searches for his eyes, finds back to her professionalism. "How was your night?"

"Do you need to ask?"

"It's part of my job." Since he is standing she straightens her skirt, rounds the table and leans against the top, folding her hands mannerly.

"You look pretty in glasses. Why take them off?"

_Take off my shackles._

"Those?" She reaches behind her, plays with the side pieces. She smiles.

This time, his session flies by like a hawk rushing at prey. He lifts the corners of his mouth when walking back to his cell. He yet has to determine what kind of person the psychiatrist is. Maybe he should ask for a second opinion. He knows just the specialist.

"Skree!" They're almost back in the cell when Taka unexpectedly takes off Simon's shoulder in one swift movement and startles Pollyanna, who swallows the wrong way and has a coughing stroke. With long strides Simon runs after his hawk, ignoring the dying shouts behind him. He knows Taka's behavior. He knows the signs.

Somebody has been here. Some unauthorized trespasser.

At first glance his cell looks as always. The plank bed is made orderly, his little trinkets stand lined up perfectly but his spare clothes –

One step and he can confirm his gut feeling. Somebody has been in his cell.

"Simon Blackquill!" Pollyanna reaches the cell door. His cheeks are as red from strain as a stop sign. A stream of curses and meaningless words comes from his mouth.

_Somebody has been in his cell._

"Silence!" Simon spins around in one fluent movement and sees it in the bailiff's eyes, the sudden fear and realization that he's talking to a convict on death row. It was so easy to make them forget. It's so easy to make them remember. "Who was in my cell just now?!" One step and he could grab the bailiff by his shirt's collar, press him up against the wall.

_What do you have to lose, Simon?_

_What should you be afraid to lose?_

He points behind him in an angry gesture but, of course, the damned shackles. He has to turn to the side, use both hands and point at his spare clothes with folded hands. "I don't fold my clothes like a **peasant**. Who. Was. In my cell."

"Ha ha ha ha!" Simon's gaze flies to the cell's door, anger flaring up. "Fear not for I am here!"

First impression: A ghost. Second thought: Ghosts only exist in stories. Third, inevitable question, in a tone that suggests death: "And who might you be?" He has trained to put the sharpness of a fine steel blade into his voice perfectly so everybody would flinch back when he let it come down to making use of his weapon. Intimidating, crippling, calling out for a duel. His eyes widen as the newcomer reaches for his holster. Nobody in prison has dared to answer his challenge before.

He isn't prepared to have a detective's badge almost shoved into his face when the newcomer pulls his ID out and shouts: "In justice we trust! I'm Bobby Fulbright, detective and defender of justice!"

"Oh Detective Fulbright!" Pollyanna escapes from within grabbing range and switches position to something tactically more valuable – behind the detective's back. "He's out of his mind! He wanted to attack me, I swear!"

"Hmmm ..." The detective forms his fingers like a checkmark and moves sunglasses up his nose's bridge, covering most of his face. "The only logical solution is to calm him down!" Punch to the front, dynamic pose. "Convict of cell 216, your acts of injustice will not be tolerated!" Simon's eyebrows are covered by his bangs so the detective can't grasp the mixture of mild surprise and annoyance from his face. "Step down or I will punish you in the name of justice!"

"All I hear is justice, _Fool Bright._" Simon clenches his hands into fists. "Then give me justice. Somebody was in my cell while I was away." There is no doubt. Taka doesn't make mistakes.

"It must have been the cleaning lady." Fulbright points down the hallway and reassuringly puts an arm around Pollyanna, who still tries to keep his safety distance to Simon.

"Tch. Do you-" He frowns at the man. Cleaning lady? No, that is impossible. For six years now– He changes his mind with one gaze at the detective's face. He would have to deal with the problem himself, his way. "Tch." With one last deadly gaze he stretches his arms demanding toward the bailiff, expecting him to free him from the shackles but Pollyanna shakes his head and evades to the side. "I'm sorry Simon but you're not my problem anymore. Detective Fulbright volunteered to take my place."

"Fool Bright?", Simon repeats, aghast. The detective puts two fingers against his temple in some sort of salute and flashes a blinding smile. Simon stares. "_Fool Bright?_"

_This is a bad joke._

"I look forward to working together, Mr. Blackquill!"

"Drop the mister", he answers automatically. Then stretches his arms toward the detective. He's losing time. "My arms are getting heavy." He has matters to attend to. The culprit might still be near. This situation right now does not matter. Taka, who is sitting on his favorite spot in the cell, is shifting uneasily from side to side, waiting to come into play. Simon himself feels an itch to find the culprit and punish him accordingly.

The detective throws back his head and laughs from the bottom of his heart, the same obnoxious laugh as before. Punishment for the ears. "Not yet, Blackquill! We have a visit at the psychiatrist scheduled in 15 minutes and afterwards we must visit the Detention Center, following a request!"

"I've been with the psychiatrist just now." All he can do is keep his temper down. "I'm finished for today."

"Special request from the Prosecutor's Office."

* * *

From the psychiatrist Simon gets a letter which contents are unbeknownst to him and then he follows this strange man to the prisoner transport vehicle. Through the darkened windows in the back of the car he watches the outside, listens to himself, wondering if he craves being there again. Free like a bird.

His right shoulder feels naked. The detective was very clear about Taka.

_Why do I need a detective? Why _**this** _detective_?

He watches the driver through the small bars that separate the car parts between free and jailed people.

The place they arrive at is familiar, of course. He has been here often, interrogated, blamed.

_And times before that you have been here to interrogate and blame people, Simon._

They enter and proceed, the detective talking and talking (nothing of value) and then Simon freezes as he sees who sits behind the glass. He dreaded this as much as he longed for it but is he prepared for this? Will he ever be prepared?

He sits down, his chains clinking quietly with his movements. His hands are shaking because of slight panic now and his breathing, he feels as if his coat is too tight around his chest.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Blackquill."

The man on the opposite side of the glass has aged over the years but while many people live like fruit, he is more like vintage vine, only getting better as time goes on. Sophisticated lineaments and knowing eyes now behind thick red glasses (why didn't he ever wear them before?) and an eternal frown framed by two eyebrows.  
"Good evening, Edgeworth-dono." How long has it been? He remembers Prosecutor Edgeworth from his early days in the Prosecutor's Office but mostly from the stories about him. The legends of his fights with the defense attorney Phoenix Wright, both his rise and fall and the affairs abroad and inland that he had to solve all by himself – this man is a legend among prosecutors.

They had talked once.

"_Welcome to the Prosecutor's Office. I take it that you know how to pursue the truth without using illegal methods, rookie?" - "Y-yes, sir!"_

"I must ask for your pardon for this rather unexpected visit", Edgeworth says and adjusts his glasses. Detective Fulbright – Simon had forgotten his presence, or maybe he wished to forget it – salutes and leaves the room so that Simon and Edgeworth can talk privately. Being reminded of his situation Simon tenses up, clenches his hands into fists, stops the uncontrollable shacking for a breath or two. If this prodigy of a prosecutor comes to visit then it can't mean anything good. Stop being foolish, Simon.

"I will hear you out, Edgeworth-dono. I can permit to give away the little free time that I have to spare." _Because I'm an oh so busy man. Sitting in the clink for over six years._

"Thank you." _He smiles._ Edgeworth smiles. Simon feels his hackles getting up, stiffens. "Surely you are aware of the situation outside of prison? The era people call 'The Dark Age of the Law'?" Edgeworth crosses his arms in front of his chest and taps his elbow with his pointing finger, thinking. "Truely, we lawyers have a lot of fault and blame to accept on ourselves. However, the only wrong way to go at this is to accept the situation as inevitable. It's not. And I'm here to prove it, Mr. Blackquill. You are a capable prosecutor _and _you played a role in the beginning of the Dark Age of the Law. Do you understand my point?"

"Is that wise, Edgeworth-dono?" Of course Simon knows what Edgeworth is talking about. The Dark Age of the Law, the time when prosecutors and defense attorneys would fight with every means possible to get the verdict they wished for. Few of them walk the path of truth.

Simon did not.

"Is it?" Edgeworth taps his temple with a smug expression. "I have received reports about your endeavors to attract the attention of a certain individual so that you can fulfill your desires for revenge. Working together will benefit everyone involved. And with you behind the prosecutor's bench we would get what we need. We need the nation's eyes on us. There are battles to be fought on my fronts, if that phrase pleases you more. We will bring the Dark Age of the Law to an end."

"Tch." He turns his head, shifting Taka's feather from his mouth's left corner to the right. "You were the one to start it."

"And I will be the one to put an end to it, Mr. Blackquill." Edgeworth places a hand on the counter in front of him, his voice coming close to freshly hammered out steel being put into water to cool. "I always see things through to the end. You should do the same."

_It's pretentious to tell this to me of all people. I know how it is to see something through until the very end. But your end will be a different one from mine, Edgeworth-dono._

"Why he?" Simon lifts one finger while keeping his arms crossed in front of his chest, pointing into the general direction of where the detective has disappeared to.

"Fulbright is competent. A hero of justice. People want to see him. They like him. Try to tolerate the detective." There is something going on behind Edgeworth's forehead that teases Simon with staying hidden – like a second hidden compartment in a treasure box that you know exists but can't open violently in fear that you might damage its contents. Think.

"What about Diego Armando?"

"Ah." Edgeworth breaks eye contact, looks at the floor. He isn't the same he was when they met the first time, the only time. Simon can't name the change. He still thinks about the smile, still tries to figure out the prosecutor. "Detective Skye will be taking care of him."

"Skye? As in Lana Skye's sister? Gant's puppet?"

"Don't talk ill of her." He sounds tired. Done. "I told you everyone will play his part."

"And what if I refuse?" A sigh.

"That would be most unfortunate but not world's end. Think about my offer, Mr. Blackquill. If you decide to fight on our side after all, tell Detective Fulbright. He will escort you to the Prosecutor's Office. We will handle things there." He stands up, his movements stiff. Where his eyes had gleamed with the preparations of battle there was a weariness now. Simon knows those eyes. He sees them in the mirror.

Edgeworth is almost out of sight. "Ah, one more thing." He stops as if something just occurred to him but keeps his back turned to the convict. "Through … an acquaintance, who is able to talk with the dead, we have been able to commute with Metis Cykes' ghost. She said that Solomon Starbuck is her murderer."

"Ghosts lie too."

He has heard that statement more than once but no, it wasn't Starbuck. It wasn't Simon either but what does it matter. What does it matter now.


	2. Lion's Den 2

What does despair taste like? Is it the iron taste of blood filling your mouth, choking out your breath, your mind, any support to hold onto?

_Athena._

For a second, he can lay down his walls, reach out, close her into an embrace. His chest is throbbing. There are no words to escape his mouth when the blood starts flowing out of the wound right under his left breast – there is too much of it, he's going to die, isn't he?

He is not ready to die.

_Athena?_

She's so small, _fragile, _pressing her palms against her face, covering eyes, nose, mouth, all to suppress the sobs, embraced by the darkness around her. Her shoulders are shaking. She is right there but she's out of his reach. He can't hold her anymore.

Simon's arms twitch to reach out but he's caged in his own lies, breaking his creed of always telling the truth.

The truth doesn't matter now.

"It wasn't him! Why would nobody listen to me?!" She points at him, screaming at the people of the courthouse. "I can hear the voice of his heart and it screams that he's innocent!"

_Don't say that._

Blood is spilling onto the ground, filling up the courtroom. It's black now, black like ink, rising higher and higher until it starts drowning him. Is it still his blood?

"It wasn't her, it was me!", he shouts desperately and -

Is this despair? He can't see her anymore, no matter how much he turns and searches, the darkness is too deep for his eyes. But what sense does this prison make if she's not here anymore? What sense -

"Something's wrong with Mom."

He turns to look at Athena, who is standing behind him. She is smiling, covered in actual blood, her eyes dead. Simon's insides bristle. Oh terrible smile.

With a jolt Simon sits up on his plank bed, fingers clawing his blanket, bathed in his own sweat. His breathing goes irregular, fitfully. A nightmare. Nothing more than a nightmare.

He presses the blanket against his bare chest, trembling. He needs to calm down. He must not think about it. He looks at his hands, inhales and exhales through his mouth. Do not think about it.

"Skree." Taka jumps from his usual place on the bar down on the plank bed and curls himself into a pile of feathers next to Simon, pressing against his bare leg. He reaches out, caresses his bird's head. Where would he be without Taka? Broken, giving in under the pressure.

Truly die. Truly despair.

_She said that Solomon Starbuck is her murderer._

Simon presses his face against his fists, cheeks burning from the hot tears that drip down onto the blanket, onto his skin. Why? Why did this happen?

His shoulders twitch in utter silence as more tears fall down, trailing over his knuckles, over his cheeks, leaving their marks on skin and soul.

He is a samurai, he's the master of twisted swordsmanship … but what should he do with the broken blade, safely concealed and sheathed in the darkest corner of his heart so that it won't turn on him, won't break him?

_Anger is a hot cover for layers of fear._

* * *

"Good morning, Blackquill!"

Simon is confused about the unusual wake-up call and even with his eyes open he wonders if he is still asleep. Not that he had much sleep tonight. "Fool Bright?" He sits up, trying to place the source of uneasiness in his chest.

"Let's get started for today, shall we?" Fulbright throws his arm up in his usual salute, smiling blindingly. "We might make it in time for opening hours today."

_Opening hours? What opening hours?_

Simon blinks the tiredness out of his eyes, banishes it in the back of his mind and sees from the corner of his eye that Taka isn't by his side anymore. That could only mean one thing. "What time is it?", he asks, trying to keep the tiredness out of his voice. Never appear weak.

"Seven o'clock. Is there something wrong with that?" Simon is late. He shouldn't be late. His inner clock should have woken him at the same time as it did the past six years.

He stumbles out of bed but is captivated enough by the effort to not show his nightmarish night to the outside so he doesn't indulge in the detective's comment, keeps his movements as he grabs shirt, bar jacket, cravat and beloved long coat quick and precise. He could ask the detective what he was jabbering about but first he needs food in his circulation and he needs time alone and away from these watching eyes.

A moment of weakness by himself.

"Taka", he calls out and whistles and the detective startles because Taka shoots past his head so closely that his claws nearly graze his head.

_Serves you right, Fool Bright._

Taka lands on his shoulder and pecks a streak of his hair, tearing at it accusingly. "Yes, sweetheart, I know. We'll get there right away." Simon can forgive himself if he makes a mistake that only concerns himself but if it also hurts Taka it adds to his self-hatred and anger. _Never again, _he swears to himself.

Simon steps closer to Fulbright and takes the familiar shackles, ignoring the upcoming headache right behind his temples. As they pick up their regular path towards dining area the detective throws surprisingly few "Good morning!"s at people left and right, keeping them less fake than everybody else on their way.

_Maybe there is a god in heaven who exchanged Pollyanna with someone who actually feels tired in the mornings and spares me a lot of nerves._

At his usual table – where he technically arrives half an hour too late – sits only one familiar face, in his wheelchair, thoughtfully staring at the porridge in front of him or whatever prison guards call the food. There is almost no other soul around anymore. Working time has begun. He will be fetched there soon too, no doubt.

Taka immediately takes off Simon's shoulder with an accusing screech and disappears in the animal feeding area. Simon watches him until he's out of sight, then proceeds to sit down at his usual place.

"Ah, it's you." Simon sits down without answer, grabs the spoon on the table and forces himself to eat. "Most people have already eaten."

"Happens", Simon growls. "Seems like a missing wake-up call does the rest. And the new guy doesn't know the prison's rules."

"Hahaha, so you're the lucky prisoner who got a detective? I have been wondering about it already." The other man turns his head and sighs, caressing a canary's head. "Maybe your detective meant it well after all."

"Do I need that here in prison?", Simon grumbles.

"Everybody, Eyas, likes kindness from time to time. Even you." The chair next to Simon gets pulled back and Diego plunks down into the seat, slamming his mug onto the table. "And me? The chances to be forced back to work in hell was none to billion. Still happened."

"Rare to see you here", Simon greets his friend.

"Rare to see you late." Diego grimaces but hides it behind the edge of his coffee mug. "Hey Duckling, shouldn't you have wheeled over to the training room by now?"

"I should. I was told to wait for my companion." If he takes offense in the nickname he doesn't show it to the outside. Not even a single muscle twitches on his face when he answers.

"Well-behaved Acro. Why do they even put you in a cage, Duckling?" Diego lets a moment pass, turns back to Simon: "Tell me hell's got a call for you too, huh? So how's _your _detective, Eyas?"

"For fuck's sake, don't _mention _him." Simon covers his face with a hand and rubs against the headache, to no avail. What's already there is near impossible to get rid off again. "Did you know that cleaning ladies search through prisoner's belongings now?" He makes the question sound casual but Diego still catches the undertone in Simon's words.

"They're not supposed to. Except if the warden's changed the rules again." Diego scoffs and leans over the table, his upper body turned to face Simon. "Wouldn't surprise me. Is something missing from your stuff, Eyas?"

"Not exactly", he ponders, throws a side look at Diego from under his bangs and notices a young woman with a peeved facial expression heading their way. She approaches fast, her lab coat fluttering behind her, sits down next to Diego as if it were the most natural thing in the world and unpacks a lunchbox filled with vegetables and two sandwiches with small angry motions.

"Detective." Diego leans back in his chair, dropping their previous topic. "You give us the honor of your presence?"

"If I hear one more word about justice", she begins with trembling voice, nearly inaudible, and stabs a tomato in her lunchbox with a toothpick, "I won't guarantee the guy's safety, I swear. First the fop with his awful music, day in and day out, talking and talking about how _bad _everything is about his life as if _others _do not have problems as well. Then _you _with your hell and suffering shit in this god forsaken prison, bitterness and tough fate and _everything_. And this justice guy-" She interrupts herself to eat the spiked tomato and growls: "Very, _very_ unscientific." She then bites into her sandwich with such ferocity that Simon unwillingly pictures a hawk gutting its prey with its beak.

Diego laughs. "Simon prefers to open his trap to have the stuff that you call food instead of telling good old me about the new guy, Detective, but I'm happy that at least you have let me in on your thoughts. Shows the tender bonding that we developed during our short time together. Duckling, Eyas, that's lovely Ema Skye." He pushes his mug over the table next to Ema's hand and intertwines his fingers with a smug smile in her direction. "Try this blend, Detective. You will feel better afterwards."

She eyes the cup but doesn't reach for it. "Maybe if it was alcohol. To make me drunk."

"Drunk detectives get fired. I would miss your company, Hoglet." He's keeping his face straight even with the weight of Simon's heel pressing on his toes, reminding Diego about how little Simon thinks about snarky remarks.

"I think I could live with that, _Diego Armando_." She checks her mobile phone during two bites of her half-eaten sandwich and frowns, missing Diego's well aimed pinch against Simon. "Stupid bailiff, one job, just one thing I asked you to do and-"

"I'm sorry for my tardiness but here I am, Detective Skye!" A well-known bailiff practically jumps past the chairs in their direction, waving with his phone in hands. "I forgot our appointment but I was told that I would find you here! It was Detective Fulbright-"

"He's here for me." Acro leans over the table. "Second-hand bailiffs distributed for use."

"Second-rate as well." Simon lets a small breath out through his nose. "Maybe he meant it well after all, _Duckling_."

Acro pulls a face on Simon. "Don't pick this up as well, I beg of you. My name is _Dingling_, not Duckling, but I'd prefer the simple Acro." His birds take flight when the bailiff approaches the table and steps behind the wheelchair, ready to leave again without as much as a word for the other prisoners.

"Pollyanna, won't even say hello to an old acquaintance?" Simon enjoys the obvious discomfort and taps his temple, accompanied by the familiar rattling of his shackles. "What about all the upright ideals in prison that you praise so much?"

The uncomfortable silence drags on as the bailiff just stares at the other three people present. Pollyanna's face turns an unhealthy shade of red that not even Ema's tomatoes took after being so roughly stabbed. He clears his throat, pushes Acro's wheelchair around and speeds up to get out of earshot. 1:0 for Simon, it seems.

Acro lifts an arm to the side as good-bye and hears from the rattling of chains somewhere behind them that his gesture is reciprocated. He smiles.

* * *

_Breathe in._

Breathing hurts. Hell, even thinking hurts. Darkness, he wants the darkness back.

_Breathe out._

This is far too painful to be hell. Except hell is _supposed to hurt_ and he just made a mistake. Did he make a mistake?

_The voice._

Remembering hurts as well. A different kind of pain. The pain of losing someone you love. The pain of failure and distrust towards yourself and your abilities. Honestly, why is he even here?

_The voice is poison._

_Maybe this is hell after all._


End file.
